Not tragic.
Just honest.
Grandpa Henry had been in Hawaii when he was young, during World War II. Afterward, he returned to Ohio, married my grandmother Evelyn, raised a family, worked, retired, became a grandfather, then a great-grandfather.
Life kept moving.
Hawaii became part of the past.
Yet sometimes he would say he still remembered the ocean.
“The smell is different there, Annie.”
He was the only person who still called me Annie.
My full name was Annabel, but to Grandpa, I had been Annie since the day I was born.
So I started saving.
Quietly.
For three years.
I skipped unnecessary purchases, put aside part of every paycheck, and kept a separate account labeled only H so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch it.
Then one Sunday afternoon, I walked into his house holding two plane tickets.
He stared at them.
Then at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Annabel.”
“Hawaii.”
“I
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